


Pocket Monsters

by drowzeee



Series: Game Over - Reality Begin [1]
Category: Half Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowzeee/pseuds/drowzeee
Summary: Growing up- if one could even call it that- as property  had its fun way of affecting a person’s psyche. A person. This is something Bubby considers himself. Human? Not nearly.Months after the events of The Game, Bubby confronts underlying trauma from his time as a living science experiment. The Science Team reacts.
Relationships: Benrey/Gordon Freeman, Bubby/Dr. Coomer (Half-Life), Tommy Coolatta/Darnold
Series: Game Over - Reality Begin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825423
Comments: 33
Kudos: 273





	Pocket Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small oneshot to explore Bubby's character. I have many thoughts and feelings about this old bastard, all written between the AM of 3 and 7. I have no sleep schedule.  
> Enjoy!

Growing up- if one could even call it that- as property had its fun way of affecting a person’s psyche. A person. This is something Bubby considers himself. Human? Not nearly. Though on the outside, if you disregard his opalescent skin and the sharp teeth lining his gums like that of a shark, one could safely assume he was human, if an odd one at best. 

Surface appearances are just quite that, though; the mere surface. Bubby, unlike humans, can perfectly recall his first conscious thought. Within a tube. Filled with thinner tubes, like wires, like ropes, protruding his soft flesh and pumping him with air and chemicals and nutrients. Trapping him. 

Keeping the beast caged. 

Bubby is born not as Bubby. What point is there in naming the prototypes before they’ve proven their worth? The scientists at Black Mesa have long forgone naming their experiments. At least, they have for this one. This iteration alongside hundreds of discarded bodies with no names before him. 

When his mind first wakes, he cannot breathe. It’s no matter, considering he hasn’t the slightest clue he _should_ be breathing. The oxygen traveling directly to his lungs via tubing does plenty to keep his heart beating, his ‘blood’ flowing. Only when he attempts to make a sound does air escape his lips, small bubbles floating high and out of reach, blurry even mere centimeters away from his eyes. 

Bubby is alive, and has already lived countless lives before. He knows this, and it’s only been a meager ten seconds since his brain synched with his heart. Flashes of previous incarnates- failures- his species. His prototypes. The memories are not logical, rather, they are emotional. Bubby does not _remember_ so much as he remembers _feeling._

It’s a lot to handle for your first few seconds in the world. 

It’s nothing compared to what’s coming. 

* * *

Life outside of Black Mesa is indescribable. Bubby has nothing to compare it to other than Black Mesa. All he has to say is that it is _better._

It is so much better to be free. 

There are downsides. There always are. With change comes good and bad. Luckily for Bubby, the good outweighs the bad tenfold. This doesn’t mean the bad isn’t _fucking bad_ , though. 

For example; he can finally eat real food. The shit they forced into him in Black Mesa was bland and served no purpose beyond keeping his body functioning. No flavor. No texture. No life. Just supplements of nutrition in the form of edible meals, mostly colorless bars and smoothies. But in the _real world?_ The outside? There is color and there is heart and there is _so much_ in _everything._

And yeah, maybe Chuck E Cheese’s pizza wasn’t the pinnacle of fine cuisine, but it was tastier than anything Bubby had ever put in his mouth in his entire god damn miserable life. 

The cons? Well, his body wasn’t exactly programmed to handle anything beyond the necessities. That meant… pretty much anything fun to eat made him… _sick._ Immediately. Like a sucker punch to the stomach. A sucker punch made of daggers. 

At Tommy’s birthday party, Bubby summed up his short trip to the bathroom leaning over the sink with stomach bile dripping down his chin as a fluke. Too much adrenaline. Too much hype from party going. 

Things were never easy. 

Bubby, as he has learned long ago, was designed to work. Programmed to obey. Every single strand of DNA in his body was intentionally coded to adhere to Black Mesa as their property.

Tests. Experiments. Being dissected alive. Observed. Tortured. Confined. Beaten. Having his body injected with drugs. Needles. Tubes. Floating alone in his tube. Tears. Isolation. 

He attests his survival to his stubbornness and his stubbornness alone. As though spiting the ones who created him in their image of the perfect being, Bubby continues to live as his own person, not their subject. He’s incredible, ultimate, and a goddamn genius. But he is not perfect. He doesn’t want to be. Not anymore. 

Bubby intends to leave memories of Black Mesa behind. Of course, this is excluding the short span of years with Harold at his side, and that week of running around with the Science Team. Well, actually, some moments after the cascade could spare to take a hike. Those aliens weren’t exactly the epitome of beauty. 

Bubby intends to live in the present. 

The past is never fond of being forgotten, though. 

Months after their escape, Bubby finds himself sitting on the island of Tommy Coolatta’s kitchen, the cold tile of the counter refreshing against his palms after spending the day in the summer sun. His skin tingles slightly despite the several layers of sunscreen Dr Coomer slathered on his exposed bits (The little that made itself shown; he’s not privy to flaunting himself so freely). Although, Bubby can’t tell if it’s sunburn causing the sensation, or another chemical reaction he’s yet to find out about the hard way. This is his first time wearing sunscreen, after all. 

Why? For an outdoor grilling session of course. Tommy had invited the science team over to his humble three story home for Guy’s-Night-Plus-Sunkist. Bubby prefers to spend his free time at home tinkering with his devices, but time spent with the science team was precious even to him. 

That, and Harold would have dragged him over regardless. His husband drags him everywhere. Bubby loves it. 

“How are you feeling, dear?” Harold asks him. He stands before Bubby in a tacky floral print button-up and cargo shorts. The definition of a dad outfit, even moreso than whatever garbage heap Gordon was wearing. The man holds a plate in one hand, a half eaten burger atop it, and a can of Coca Cola in the other. Bubby swings just left foot out to catch Harold’s hip with his ankle, resting his leg on the other man’s side affectionately. 

“Fine,” he says. “If I got a fucking sunburn I’m going to kill that bastard.”

“Gordon?” Coomer asks, an amused smile already playing on his lips. “I’m not sure Gordon has control of the sun’s effect on you, Bubby!”

“Not that _we_ know of. I’m going to blame him anyways.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Coomer shrugs. Then, he leans against the counter next to Bubby’s perch, placing his meal and drink to the side. A big, calloused hand comes to rest gently on Bubby’s thigh, the man’s body heat sinking into his leg through his slacks. Coomer smiles up at him with a knowing concern. “How are you _besides_ the threat of sunburn?”

Bubby’s expression sours. Of course Harold would know something was wrong, and then proceed to _bug him_ about it. But he can’t be mad; it’s nice to have someone care. Long ago Bubby swore to never take that for granted.

“I’m ready to go home.”

“We’ve only been here two hours at most, dear! Tommy was very excited for tonight. He texted me over three hundred times! One Letter Per Message.”

“That’s… wow. He _was_ very excited.” 

Coomer chuckles, rubbing a small circle with his thumb. Bubby’s heart flutters at the simplicity of it. Does Harold even know he’s doing it? The effect he has? 

“Why don’t you come back and join us in the living room? We’re going to watch Pokemon The First Movie: Mewtwo Strikes Back!”

“Fine.”

Bubby slides off the island counter, landing softly next to Dr Coomer, already missing the warm spot on his leg. He runs cold, it’s how he was designed. So what if he leeches off his husband’s natural body heat like a lizard in the arctic? 

The missing touch is immediately replaced by fingers interlocking his own, followed by a small squeeze and a peck on the lips, so he accepts the loss with stride. A fair trade. While Coomer takes his plate, Bubby grabs his drink, sneaking a sip of the delicious soda- something he can consume without hurling like a sickly dog. Even Black Mesa was not so cruel to deprive a mere subject like him of the joys of soda.

They make way to the living room, decorated with splashes of color everywhere in the form of nonsensical paintings littered with paw prints (‘Sunkist’s masterpieces,’ as Tommy had put it). The artist herself is sitting on the red leather couch already, her tail wagging and paws dancing as she watches the television. Bubby sits next to her, Coomer to his right sinking back into the cushions. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he’s very fond of the dog. She is a fellow test tube baby, after all. 

Sunkist turns her attention to Bubby and boofs before flopping into his lap, her tongue rolling out of her mouth as she smiles openly up at the old man, tail thumping the armrest. Coomer wordlessly takes his Coca Cola back, allowing Bubby to pet the dog with both hands, which he does with a smile on his face that has no right being so large. Sunkist practically beams as he scratches behind both of her ears, and he’s one second away from baby-talking her before the porch glass door slides open and Gordon and Benrey burst through with a combined shout, limbs flailing while they scuffle like children during recess. Tommy trails after them looking slightly exasperated as they wrestle the entire walk to the living space. Darnold is the one to shut the door behind them with his foot, balancing a tray of guacamole and salsa in one hand, a bowl of chips in the other. 

“Careful, _please!”_ Darnold whines, nodding thankfully to Tommy when he takes the bowl of chips out of his hold. “We just had the rug cleaned _Wednesday._ If I see a single stain on it I will. I will…”

“Feed us to Sunkist?” Benrey suggests from around where he’s grappled Gordon into a headlock on the recliner chair. 

“Yes!” Darnold says as Tommy gasps “No!”

The mixology scientist deposits the tray onto the coffee table before the sofa, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. Tommy’s bowl of chips joins soon after. Sunkist, much to Bubby’s internal disappointment, prioritizes the food, her nose sniffing curiously at the platter before her. A dog is still a dog, he supposes. 

“No, girl, you already had a whole bag of Cool Ranch Doritos! These chips are for Bubby!” Tommy shoos her back, then takes a chip and pops it into his mouth. “And me.”

Bubby eyes the chips and dip skeptically. It looks. Well. It looks delicious. But-

“Don’t worry,” Darnold assures him with a proud smile. “I made this all from scratch myself! Nothing in there should set off your stomach. And if it does, well. Um. There’s a trash can and some water in the kitchen.”

“But-but you won’t need it!” Tommy hurriedly says, pulling Darnold by the arm towards the giant yellow bean bag chair. “Because we made them with love and- and science!”

“Right! With Love™!” Darnold agrees. The two idiots sink back onto the ridiculously large bean bag, their limbs already in a tangled mess. No but seriously, that bean bag was fucking ginormous. 

“With Love™!” Coomer parrots, swiping a chip and some salsa for himself. 

“If you say so,” Bubby mumbles. He doesn’t grab one for Personal Eatage yet, deciding to feed Sunkist a chip covered in guac instead. He appreciates the sentiment but he’s not in the mood to risk embarrassing himself in front of everyone tonight. All because he can’t eat fucking _food._ It’s humiliating. 

The gesture is belittling. Sweet- touching, even, but belittling. Every day is just another reminder that no, Bubby, _you are not like them. You are not like the people who created you. You never will be._ Sometimes he takes pride in that. Those people were more inhumane than him at some points. Frankenstein and his monster, and all that. 

But tonight? Tonight he doesn’t take pride. 

He just wants to go home. 

As if noticing his inner turmoil, Sunkist nudges his hand for more petting. He obliges, silently exhaling. 

“Start the movie. Wanna watch. Pikacheeeewwww,” Benrey drawls. He and Gordon have somehow fit both of their bodies into one chair, the latter not looking very pleased to be there, Benrey’s arm still being around his neck and all. 

“Yes, let’s!” Darnold agrees, making a show of pressing the play button on the remote. “I kind of wish we were watching the remake, though.”

“ _Darnold, no…_ ” Tommy says with a cringe, his disappointment loudly echoed by Benrey and Gordon’s offended shouts. 

“What!? I haven’t seen it yet!” Darnold exclaims. “You guys have no right to judge me. You’re not even watching the Japanese dub!”

“Because the English dub is a classic!” Gordon argues, his hands flying into the air. “How the fuck can you watch Pokemon in Japanese?”

“Because it’s _anime!”_

“Damn Darnold you’re lamer than the divorced dad lol.”

“Hey!” Darnold and Gordon yell. Benrey grins shit-eatingly. Coomer simply chuckles. Tommy drags a hand down his face. 

Bubby watches the screen.

The surrounding conversation falls on deaf ears. 

From behind the thick lenses of his glasses, Bubby’s eyes gloss over. 

Is he truly so pathetic to be triggered by a cartoon? So weak to be affected by animated lines on a screen of a silly cartoon animal? Why yes, he is. 

Littering countless bodies with bullets and wading through actual alien hell and back was little trouble to Bubby but a _cartoon?_ The instant unbridling shame that crashes through the man is akin to a tidal wave in its strength, locking all of his muscles like wound up springs, gritting his sharp teeth so tight they threaten to pierce his gums and bleed. 

Tubes and wires. 

Suits and scientists. 

The G-Man’s crystal blue eyes. 

It’s all he can think about. 

“ _Oh no_.” Harold whispers, head snapping to look at Bubby. 

It’s too late. 

He stands. 

“I’m going to. Go. Somewhere else.”

“ _Bubby-_ “

Bubby skirts around the coffee table and out of the living room, his heart pounding and spine cold as ice. The hallway, decorated in splashes of color, turns white, bleak, dim. Footsteps. His own. Echo off the walls and the wooden floor panels. Tile panels. The tile floor made of concrete. The fluorescent lights above flicker. 

He slams the bathroom door behind him, struggling to breathe as he stares in the mirror. His chest visibly heaves, up and down up and down. In and out. He can’t breathe. There is liquid surrounding him. Tubes. Tubes inside him. He whines, choking on the sound so it turns guttural, and claws at the insertion spots. The shoulder. The lung. The throat. The spine. The brain. 

Desperate gulps of air quickly morph into low growls. It’s a disgusting noise, like flem is clogging his vocal chords. Like he’s some animal. Some creature. 

But he is. Isn’t he? In his core he is a creature. Not a human. Bubby has never been human. Simply a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Abomination in a lab coat. 

Someone taps on the glass. What else can he do but react?

* * *

Bubby has been alive for seven months now. 

That’s two months more than any test before him has gotten without going completely feral! He takes pride in this fact. Not only is he fully cognitive and functioning, he is also very intelligent. Bubby’s sanity survived having countless Wikipedia articles downloaded directly into his brain, making him smarter than any stupid scientist at this corrupt, no good facility. 

He doesn’t dare voice these thoughts. Ever. He doesn’t want to be put back in his tube more than he can help it. Just the threat of time-out is enough to snap even Bubby’s ferocious attitude into dust. 

The scientists who created him are selfish morons, but they have more authority than he could ever hope to achieve. Bubby is property. They are people. Bubby is a science experiment. They are doctors. 

Pff. He is a better doctor than everyone in this facility, even if he’s technically not a _doctor_ doctor. He just has the artificial education and intelligence of one. Who needs a doctorate when you have knowledge?

One day Bubby will prove himself. Prove his worth. Then they will no longer control him. 

No more dissections. No more time-outs. No more torture. No more tests. 

One day. 

Not today, though. Today he is shadowing a new partner. Doctor Harold P Coomer. Bubby set his last partner on fire when he got an equation incorrect, causing several other people to catch aflame, causing _documents_ and _equipment_ to ignite and- well it was a huge mess that got him extra time in the tube and some unsavory beatings. So he’s getting a new partner- more like ‘babysitter.’

Whatever. Those ‘scientists’ were all brain dead and useless anyways. No one missed them during their visit to the medical ward. 

As Bubby is escorted to the lab room in the biochemical section, a place he’s not yet been and a subject he’s not yet touched, he prepares himself for a future of more punishments. They’ve yet to find him a proper lab partner, not that he needs one. But his handlers insist he is paired with a human to better assimilate him into society or whatever. Yeah, very helpful when he’s never even _been_ in society. Black Mesa is not exactly a thriving community. He hates it here. It’s all there is. 

“Behave this time, or it’s-“

“Back in my tube, yeah, yeah- _I_ _know,”_ Bubby snarls. His handler frowns, much too exhausted to glare at this point. Bubby has a knack for wearing people down within minutes. 

“It’ll be more than just the typical punishment if you fuck this one up,” his handler threatens. “We don’t _have_ to put you under during your monthly checkups, Dr Bubby.”

He gulps. Okay, point taken! Being conscious during dissection time sucked. He tries to avoid it when able. Nodding, Bubby closes his mouth, his fingers flexing uneasily. The pair turn the corridor and enter a room, automated doors sliding shut behind them. 

In the center of the room is a short old man, built like a shithouse of bricks with the sweetest smile on his face that Bubby has ever seen. He can’t help but gag under his breath at the mere sight. When Bubby makes no move to introduce himself, his handler sighs, shoving him forward. 

“Dr Coomer, this is Bubby, the prototype we mentioned. If he misbehaves you have full permission to, well, you know.” The man waves his hand vaguely. “Just don’t kill him.”

“Of course not!” Dr Coomer chirps, his round cheeks pulled back into a grin. Bubby wants to burn that cute little mustache right off his lip. The handler leaves with one last pointed look at Bubby, leaving the prototype alone with the scientist. 

Dr Coomer holds out his hand in greeting. “Hello, Professor!”

Bubby sneers, stepping back with a small growl.

“It’s ‘ _Doctor.’”_

They are not going to get along. 

* * *

Dr Coomer knows something is wrong the moment the movie begins. Personally, he’s never seen this film before, only played the Pocket Monster Trading Card Game a while back in his young adulthood. So, in turn, he was thoroughly unprepared when the sight of Mewtwo in a test tube appeared on the screen. The sight is chilling in how similar it is to… well, they’d all seen a mere glimpse of Bubby’s life prior to joining the science team. 

The situation is eerily identical. 

His husband does not take to it well. Coomer has only just whispered his concern under his breath when Bubby stands, rigid, Sunkist whining lowly behind him. 

“I’m going to. Go. Somewhere else.”

“ _Bubby-_ “

Dr Coomer reaches for him but Bubby is off, his steps robotic and stiff as he disappears down the hallway. Darnold pauses the movie, a shot of the artificial Pokemon lingering on the screen. 

“Gordon, you could have given us a warning,” Coomer says, trying to keep his tone neutral. He can’t help the frustration that leaks through. Gordon looks offended, even through his concern. 

“I’m not- why _me?_ Everyone else here has seen the movie, too!”

“Not cool, bro,” Benrey mumbles, tightening his hold on Gordon’s neck, eliciting a choked squawk from the man. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Tommy asks, pressing his thumb into his wrist. Sunkist dutifully pads over to him and nuzzles her head onto his lap. 

“He’ll be fine. My Bubby is a remarkable man!” Dr Coomer stands, brushing chip crumbs off of his pants to Darnold’s groan of disapproval. “Though I do think we should head home.”

“...I’m sorry,” Tommy mumbles. He curls into himself as Darnold wraps an arm around his back. “I- I should have. I should have remembered. And told you. Because- because I know about the tube and- and.”

He doesn’t finish his thought, just presses down harder on his wrist and clenches his eyes shut. Dr Coomer pats his shoulder gently as he walks past, nodding to Darnold. 

“It’s no issue at all, Tommy!” It was definitely an issue, but nothing so bad he wants to stress the man out about further. “Feel free to continue the movie in our absence!” He follows Bubby’s trail down the dimly lit hallway. The television remains quiet from where he left. 

The furnishing of Tommy’s house always brought joy to Coomer when he visited. It’s obvious the house was a modernistic, sleek mansion with minimalism in mind when built. However, Tommy’s colorful personality was able to save it from its boring fate. Every room and hallway was lined with a painting or picture of some kind. Hell, even the walls had splatters of paint in some places. It’s so fitting to the Coolatta family name. 

Normally, in the case of a heated moment, Bubby needs some time alone to gather his bearings, so Dr Coomer strolls slowly, content with simply observing the decor. But, at the sound of a muffled crash, Dr Coomer startles, his brow instantly set in worried determination. Distant crashes were never good!

“Bubby? Are you alright?” Obviously he isn’t, but there’s not much else to say in this situation. “We can go home, now, dear!” He calls out, approaching the bathroom where light leaks through the crack under the door. The shadows of Bubby’s feet indicate he’s inside and standing, so that’s a relieving sign. Coomer knocks on the door lightly, not wanting to agitate the man. 

When there’s no response, he tries again, pressing an ear to the wood of the door. 

Quiet. A low rumbling. Is that? Growling? Oh dear. 

Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, Dr Coomer prepares himself for a shitshow. 

“I’m opening the door,” he warns. Fingers carefully touch the door handle, then, the door shoots open, knocking an unprepared Coomer back into the wall behind him. Bubby, through a snarling mouth lined with razors of teeth, pounces on him and chomps down into his arm. It hurts like _hell._ And they've _been_ to Hell. 

He must have shouted, because several cries of concern are heard from the living room. Bubby is _strong._ He’s stronger than all of them, even Dr Coomer, and he’s biting _through_ the cybernetics in his arm. Dr Coomer doesn’t want to hurt him, not when this isn’t a friendly match of sparring, but he also doesn’t want to lose his arm, so he grabs Bubby by the back of the neck and tears him off. 

There’s a lot of blood, needless to say. Some wires, too. And when he shoves Bubby away, the other man falls to the floor, scrambling onto his hands and knees like an animal. 

Like a prototype. 

His bared teeth are dripping with blood, down his chin and onto the nice shirt Coomer bought him at Target. Well- _stole_. He stole it. But that’s not important right now. 

“Prepare for fisticuffs, team!” Dr Coomer yells, turning tail and sprinting down the hallway towards the living room. No way in hell was he going to fight his husband alone! That man was the ultimate being! Their best bet was using the Black Mesa Sweet Voice™ in a combined effort to hypnotize Bubby back into a sentient state. The man is powerful, but he’s also their friend, and though the team is prone to violence, it would be wrong to attack Bubby in such an emotionally vulnerable state. 

The Science Team is already standing, hackles raised, when Dr Coomer emerges from the hallway. All eyes hone in on the missing chunk of his forearm, but he waves them off quickly. 

“I’m fine! It’s Bubby you should be worrying about!”

“What do you mean-“ Gordon’s question is cut off by the gargled battle cry of Bubby, launching himself from the darkness towards Tommy of all people. The younger scientist yelps, falling back onto the ground in shock as Sunkist intercepts. Darnold drags Tommy back by the arms to his feet, shielding his partner behind him despite being one of the only two pure human beings present. Such is the instinct of love! 

Sunkist, meanwhile, pins Bubby down with her weight, her jaw wrapped securely around the man’s throat, their growls almost identical in ferocity. 

“ **_Sunkist no!_ ** _”_ Tommy cries, bright yellow orbs of Sweet Voice tumbling out of his mouth. Benrey also sings, but his orbs are an ugly shade of brown, like murky sewer water, which is the right idea. 

_Dirty brown means calm the fuck down!_

Bubby screams, kicking Sunkist across the floor, her nails scratching against the wood as she skids. She thumps against the wall, limp, earning a strangled cry from Tommy. Bubby’s shrieking drowns him out, though. 

“ _STOP!”_ He cries. The sound breaks Dr Coomer’s heart in two. It’s filled with pure pain. Misery. “ _I’M NOT GOING BACK!”_

Bubby turns his attention to Darnold and Tommy, the two closest men in his presence, and lunges again. Tommy, too scared to weaponize his Sweet Voice, fails in subduing the attack, crying out in pain as Bubby knocks Darnold aside with one swipe before biting into Tommy’s thigh. Dr Coomer and Benrey sing louder as Gordon rushes in to try and pry Bubby off of the man without sacrificing a chunk of his leg, but Bubby’s brain must be _substantially_ clogged with feral instinct because he doesn’t calm down one bit. In fact, he begins to glow, a yellow aura outlining his skin. 

Gordon’s attempt at interfering fails. Bubby does manage to rip out a chunk of Tommy’s leg quite successfully before spitting it onto the floor. Onto the carpet they just cleaned on Wednesday!

His attention turns to Gordon once the man places a hand on his shoulder, and that’s all it takes for Benrey’s flip to switch. Suddenly, and not a moment too soon, Benrey spears Bubby through the stomach with a hand that’s been shape-shifted into a sharp, spear-like appendage. 

With that, the silence takes over like a gun’s been fired. 

Dr Coomer’s voice lodges in his throat. 

Darnold and Sunkist are unconscious on the floor. 

Tommy and Gordon pant in silent shock. 

And Benrey… stands still. He looks surprised, in disbelief of his own actions. Bubby, skewered through the center, drips black fluid from the wound and through his mouth, mixing with the red, human blood on the floor and around his chin. 

Gordon steps back. Once. Twice. Then falls into his ass, shuffling back, face contorted with a fear Dr Coomer hasn’t seen since their escapade in Black Mesa. But who is he looking at? Bubby? Benrey? Coomer doesn’t have time to worry about Gordon when his husband is _impaled through the stomach by a world-bending alien._

“Benrey.” His voice is too quiet to shake. “Please let go of my husband.” He doesn’t mean to, but it comes out as more of a threat than request. Benrey looks to be on the verge of a panic attack, which is so unlike him. But with the way Gordon cowers in fear at the sight of him, the horror in Benrey’s expression is not unbefitting for the situation. 

“I- I think you’re not supposed to. Take the thing out. Of a wound.” Benrey points to Bubby’s wound with his free hand, swallowing down some of his emotions, trying to gain control of his temper. “It’ll bleed more. CSI Miami. Like the show.”

“That’s just for- that’s just for humans, Benrey,” Tommy whines lowly, two hands wrapped around his own wound from where he sits on the floor next to Darnold’s body. Gordon has, since, slid himself far and away next to Sunkist, where he pets the waking dog's fur with a trembling hand. She blinks groggily, ears twitching, but is unable to move past shifting her head slightly. 

Dr Coomer steps closer, in front of Bubby, cautious. His husband’s frame trembles, like a puppet being held by tight strings, dark black blobs of oil-like blood dripping down from the to-be hole in his stomach. At the older man’s quiet insistence, Benrey retracts his hand, hurriedly backing away from the damage he’s caused. 

He’s not bad. Not anymore. Not like this. 

Bubby falls into Dr Coomer’s arms as soon as the makeshift support beam/reason for his injury in the first place is gone. He’s crying quietly, soundlessly, tears flowing from behind where his glasses smush into his cheeks as his face presses into Dr Coomer’s shoulder. 

“ _I want to go home_ ,” he hiccups, then goes limp. He must be exhausted. Getting impaled by a huge alien appendage could do that to even the most ultimate of life forms. This isn’t even to mention the mental triathlon he’s been through. 

The only light in the room is from the screen of the television. Yellow. A perfect shot of the test tube experiment surrounded by scientists. Were this perhaps a film itself of some sort, the shot could be spectacularly cinematic. But, as it was for the science team, it was just… shitty. 

What a mess of a once jolly evening. 

Dr Coomer collects Bubby’s thin frame in his arms, careful not to jostle anymore ‘blood’ out of him. He blows green healing orbs of Sweet Voice into the wound. Spring green, fresh and vibrant like life itself. Hopefully that will do Bubby some good as Dr Coomer transfers him to the operating table. Or, heavens forbid, the home-made test-tube fluid filling their guest bathtub. 

“You can. You- you can stay-“ Tommy groans, struggling to get the words out through grit teeth. His wound is already healing, steam visibly floating from the exposed flesh as skin and tissue weave together. “We. Room-“ anything he has to say further than that is cut short by sobs that threaten to leak lest he clamp his lips shut. 

“Thank you, Tommy,” Dr Coomer says in earnest. “But I’m certain Bubby would prefer the comfort of our own home. I should have listened to him earlier.” He laments the last part softly, more to himself than the surrounding audience. Benrey shuffles forward, guilt radiating from his glowing eyes. Even months later, the sight of emotion on Benrey’s face is still a foreign concept despite the alien’s impressive redemption arc.

“I’ll take you there-“ his words stumble out. “Lemme teleport. Right to your spawn I- ya got- teleport ya right over.”

“Of course,” Coomer nods. Then he turns to Gordon. “Hello Gordon! It would be greatly appreciated if you stayed here and took care of things.” Tommy looks like he wants to argue, but one look at Darnold, Sunkist, and his own wound convinces him otherwise. Gordon, always reliable in dire situations like these, gets to his feet. 

“Got it,” he confirms with a nod. Then, a soft smile at Benrey. Sad but understanding. Empathetic. It quickly is replaced with determination as the man approaches Tommy and Darnold, Leader Mode activated. 

Benrey approaches timidly, his clean hand outreached, close enough to touch Dr Coomer’s arm. And just like that they’re home. It’s a small house- a master bedroom, a guest bedroom, and an office space- but the two old scientists have never needed more. This space was luxury compared to the Black Mesa dorms. 

Benrey wordlessly accepts his role as nurse and accompanies Dr Coomer to the office that’s been repurposed for all their scientific needs. It’s more of a miniature laboratory at this point. An operating table here, tools and equipment there, some computers scattered around. They transfer Bubby to the table, working fast to clean his wound and begin operating. Sweet Voice can only do so much in the healing department. Dr Coomer isn’t a medical doctor, and Benrey is far from a professional of any kind, but Coomer knows far enough about the inner workings of Bubby’s body at this point to bring him back to full health. 

There’s always the spare tub, if things go wrong. 

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. 

“I thought he could heal,” Benrey says. “Like me.”

Dr Coomer glances up from where he’s filling a syringe to see Benrey eyeing an exposed bit of Bubby’s chest apprehensively. There are scars lining his entire body, a blueprint or mapping left behind from his test tube days. They’re medical, clean and precise, like seams in a suit, the only indication of injury on Bubby’s entire body. 

“He can,” Dr Coomer states. “Those were left there on purpose.”

“Why?”

He sighs. 

“You know as well as I do that Black Mesa was not an upstanding company, Benrey.” 

_Control._ It goes unsaid. The scientists who made Bubby saw him as nothing less than a toy of which to manipulate. Dr Coomer will always regret not signing up for that division of the department, if only to have lessened the man’s pain in any way possible. 

“Oh.” Benrey finally exhales. The alien pulls away the torn fabric of Bubby’s shirt completely, not hiding his interest in the scars in the slightest. He’s curious, is all, Dr Coomer can’t blame him for that. Bubby _is_ an… _interesting_ specimen, in the alien’s defense. 

He feels dirty for even thinking such a thing. 

But, fact is fact, and Bubby is indeed a specimen. A creation of science. 

Of course, that’s not all he is, not in the least. Somehow, despite all of his hardships and years of suffering, Bubby showed more humanity than a majority of his fellow scientists at Black Mesa. Yes; _Bubby._ Goes to show how corrupt the facility truly was, hm? 

A little bit of love can go a long way. 

A _lot_ of love can do even more, and Harold has nothing but love to give for the man. For years, he’s given his love. Bubby went from a pyromaniac asshole lab partner who barely tolerated Dr Coomer’s presence to a pyromaniac asshole that loves him. It’s almost as though treating sentient beings with compassion did wonders, rather than treating them like a walking database. 

“Was he ever bad?” Benrey asks. He’s not doing much to help Dr Coomer patch the wound, but that’s actually probably for the best. 

“What do you mean by that? Weren’t you the one to collaborate that ambush with him in the first place?”

“Yeah. True. I mean.” Benrey tilts his head, digging deep into his mind for the words. “Can I be like him. Do you think I can.”

Ah, that makes sense.

“Of course. You’re free from the code now. We all are.”

“But we still act like ourselves.”

“Correct! Lore is an important part of every narrative!” He cleans a scalpel, contemplating how to approach this. Benrey is a mystery, even to Dr Coomer, the one who probably understands his hardships most. Two sentient AI’s on opposite sides of the fight, more alike than they seem. They’d bonded a bit over the course of the Resonance Cascade events, if not by the need for a fellow sentient companion alone, but also because they found friendship. 

Benrey had to die, Coomer had to help kill him. It’s what had to happen. There were no hard feelings between the two. It simply was. 

Back to the problem at hand. Well, one of them-

“What you do outside of your coding, now, is what truly matters. Especially to Gordon.” He throws a wink in to lighten the mood. Benrey sinks into his chair, his pale skin colored with just a tinge of red. “In fact, by my observations, it seems Gordon has already forgiven you. We all do.”

“Lame,” he says with a poorly hidden, goofy grin. 

  
  
  


* * *

Life is such a fragile thing, it is. Some are dead before they’ve even been born, whether it be physically or by fate. Doomed to suffer, destined to die. In Bubby’s case, he’s always had a sinking feeling that he wouldn’t last very long in this world. He was born in the body of an old man, for shit’s sake. What were they thinking with that, huh? Why not a strapping young man with handsome muscles? Did he really need to be some old twink fuck?

Whatever. 

Point is: Dr Bubby knew he’d been robbed the moment he opened his eyes for the first time, and he hadn’t even known then that their entire world was an elaborately fabricated game catered to some MIT asshole who couldn’t even remember to bring his fucking passport! Learning that the world was fake was… well it might as well have happened, right? Bubby’s life was shitty enough already. 

All that suffering was for nothing. Nothing but backstory to a side character in a narrative he was forced into. 

Gordon was the main character. 

He was just Bubby. 

The world did not end up falling apart once Gordon ‘beat the game’ though, which was a nice surprise to say the least. They ate their pizza. Bubby puked in the sink. They sang Tommy ‘Happy Birthday’ and partied with his favorite Illumination characters The Minions. 

Then they lived. 

Several years of trauma aren’t fixed in mere months, even with the love of your life by your side. But it helps that he’s there for you on those rough nights when your body just _shakes_ and you can’t stop feeling _them._ The poking and prodding, the clinical gazes, the scalpels, slicing into your flesh as you are helpless to watch behind your bounds, eyes wide and scared, no choice but to let them do what they want to your body. Your being. 

You are their property, through and through. 

But now you aren’t. You’re _his._ He’s yours. 

Bubby has friends beyond Harold, now, too, and he loves them. They’ll never catch him dead admitting it, but he does. Even Gordon, a man who he hates with his entire nonexistent soul. Hates. Hates? Or envies? Why not both? He is the main character. _Was_ the main character. Now, Bubby isn’t so sure. Gordon is stuck here like the rest of them, so he doesn’t seem so special anymore. Maybe he should cut the man some slack, try to be a bit nicer to him the next time they cross paths. 

Maybe. 

Bubby wakes to a feeling all too familiar. It’s so familiar, but long forgotten. He doesn’t bother fighting it; he can’t move anyways. This must be another routine check-up, he figures, so he relaxes to the best of his abilities and mentally straps in for the ride. They’re going to operate on him whether he wants it or not. 

Admittedly, he doesn’t expect the fingers brushing his cheek, or the way his entire body flinches in reaction. However, the voice comforting him is one he recognizes, and it’s nice, even distorted by the heavy water filter his brain is applying to the sound. The voice begins singing, the accent of the Sweet Voice unique, hitting his ears like a brush of domestic heaven.

If Bubby were to open his eyes right now, he suspects he’d see pink orbs floating above him. 

_Pure pink like a budding rose means you are loved._

It’s enough to pull the corner of his lip into a tiny smile and lure him back to sleep, the protrusion of his flesh be damned. 

This is not Black Mesa. 

His body is being handled with care. 

He is going to be okay. 

  
  
  



End file.
